


a broken promise (is a just another type of curse)

by ljbrary



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Desert, Gen, Planet Coruscant (Star Wars), Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Tatooine Culture (Star Wars), Tatooine Slave Culture (Star Wars), Whump, sand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:35:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljbrary/pseuds/ljbrary
Summary: He hates broken promises.And he hates that he’s the reason they’ve been broken.Because broken promises are just a different type of curse.[or Anakin hates sand — all it reminds him of is his past, (full of broken promises and desert dunes); and that's one thing he wishes to forget]
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Anakin Skywalker
Kudos: 38





	a broken promise (is a just another type of curse)

**Author's Note:**

> i know that the whole “anakin hates sand” thing is a favorite meme, but if i were anakin, i would probably hate sand too.
> 
> this is basically my take on why anakin hates it so much
> 
> enjoy :)

_Anakin hates sand._

The grimy, scratchy, malaise it brought as it chafed against his skin no matter how long he took to cleanse himself of its deathly grip. 

It was inescapable. Inevitable. Abrasive. _And so damn uncomfortable._

The sharp burn or the chilling freeze that it inflicted whether it was day or night — it was always extreme. 

The endless, rolling dunes that swallowed him and his hope all in one go with its ceaseless, amaranthine encompassment of Anakin's known world. 

It’s only constant it’s volatile nature.

He would never forget the monotonous existence defined only by the acrimonious, callous sea of dunes — an impossible obstacle that destroyed any hope of escaping the reality of his cruel existence. It was a boundary — an open, apathetic boundary that siphoned any hope or resistance left in a near-hopeless place, abating any and all mobility toward an aspiration of a better life. 

He would never forget the taunting reminder of the ruthless, paradoxical irony of the endless desert dunes, whispering through the hot winds that scratched and burned at his face: _"I will not stop you, but I will make you stop yourself."_

The hopeless, _agonizing_ stagnation it invoked through simply leading to _nothing_ and _nowhere_. 

And the constant, everlasting reminder of yet _more_ bonds — this time figurative — that scratched at him through his tunic at all hours of the day or night. The cruel, apathetic grains that invaded his eyes and blinded him with his involuntary tears even while his eyes were wide open. 

It was _everywhere_. 

There was _nothing_ that it didn't have some sort of monopoly over. An arduous dominion of inescapable control. 

_And he could do nothing about it._

There was nothing to fight; no one to hate; no justifiable, corporal entity that he could blame. 

Anakin Skywalker could have climbed to the highest dune and _screamed_ for all he was worth — and there would be nothing but his dissipating echo to mock him in his misery. 

It was unforgiving — but it was impersonal. It was hostile — but it was undiscriminating. It was real — but it was _intangible_ in amenability. 

But _oh so tangible_ when it grated against his skin like a false caress that all too soon turned into a deafening strike. 

_What was the point of hating something that couldn't hate him back?_

It was _infuriating_ — like an open ended question that left him racking his brain for an answer that should have been on the tip of his tongue but wasn't. 

It was _demeaning_ — like having a back turned on him in the middle of his angry, though relieving sentence. _Incomplete_. 

Anakin _couldn't stand it._

And so, as he would empty his boots as a boy; shake out his tunic; rinse out his hair; scrub at his face and hands and skin with a raw ferocity, he would wish —

Oh, if only;

There was someplace without _sand_.

...

_He got his wish when he was nine_. 

"Is it true?"

He let his thoughts wander, voicing his question with lack of forethought in context. His eyes remained glued to the viewport — no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite tear them away, even as the gentle, calming voice of Qui-Gon Jinn reverberated around the ship. 

"Is what true, Ani?"

His eyes were wide — wider, even, than they had been after he had fractured his wrist from a falling turbine — though this time his eyes were wide for a different reason. 

"That the _whole planet_ is a city?"

"Yes, Ani. That is true." 

Anakin's eyes opened even wider — though he still couldn't force his unrelenting gaze away from the transparasteel barrier between him and a _whole planet with not a single sand dune in sight_. 

His lips parted in wonderment — though his enraptured attention did not spare him a response to Qui-Gon's answer — but the Jedi in question did not seem offended. 

Anakin pressed his hands to the transparisteel — too caught up in his welcomed befuddlement of the clear, crisp planet below him to care much for the expected repercussion for his careless actions — his hands would no doubt leave prints on the clean, transparent barrier his breath was already fogging up. 

"I didn't know a place like that could exist," he murmered, almost to himself, forgetting for a moment the company of the vessel. "I didn't believe it!"

"Believe what, Ani?" Qui-Gon spoke softly from behind him, and Anakin could hear the small, bemused smile in his voice. 

"A place with no sand in sight," he answered in somewhat of a daze. "I don't believe it... There are _no_ sand dunes..."

It was quiet, save the soft chuckles of the people around him whom he had forgotten about in his disbelieving curiosity — though he gave little thought to the small laughs his admission brought — he was too caught up in the pure bliss the miracle of the planet brought to him. 

_Mom would love this_ . He thought absentmindedly. _I will show her one day_. 

And before he could let his pain envelop his (at the moment) vulnerable senses, he turned his affliction into determination:

_I promise you, Mom. I_ will. 

He would never forget his mother, and he would never forget his promise — the promise to show her the planet without sand. 

...

_He never kept his promise._

And as he held her dying body, trembling and disoriented, in his arms — he remembered the day he had pressed his innocent little face up to the viewport of a ship; had fogged up the glass with his breath, and smudged the barrier with his hands; had foolishly, _naively_ questioned the soundness of a reality where _there was no sand in sight._

And let the soft laughs ring around his ears, (much like the ringing and pulsing brought upon by his grief as he held her limp form), drowning out his cognitive reasoning — he remembered his broken promise; _and then it felt too much like a curse instead._

And Anakin supposed that if nothing else made sense, _that_ did.

And he _hated_ broken promises, and he _hated_ how _he_ was the reason they were broken, because _broken promises were just a different type of curse._

_His_ curse.

_I promise you, Mom_ , he had thought, naive as ever, _I will show you the planet with no sand_. 

And now, as the wistful, delirious reality of his audacious promise slipped intangibly through his fingers — (much like the very grains of sand he had promised to rid her from) — he felt like he was drowning all over again. 

Drowning in the endless, apathetic _waves_ of sand. An open-ended question with no reachable answer kneading at his brain through taunts of augmented control. 

And once again, as his knees and robes brushed upon the course grains still ingrained into his conscious like only yesterday he had been bound by ownership to another sentient, his mothers limp form unmoving in his grasp, Anakin remembered his promise; his _curse_ — and how it had been as naively hopeless as screaming his worth to the barren wasteland, only to be ignored in the most demeaning way possible: there was nothing to listen to him anyway. 

_I’m sorry, Mom._

He didn't feel her body slip from his arms, nor the cool, smooth metal slip into his grasp. All he felt was the rough, invasive grains digging into his knees. 

_All you ever knew was sand._

A warm hum, crackling light, _burning_ with friction — and this time, the obtrusive heat did not come from an arduous sand dune. 

Oh, _Force_ ;

Anakin _hated_ sand.


End file.
